_Richard Le Gallienne._

ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS

In heaven a Spirit doth dwell Whose heart strings are a fiddle, (The reason he sings so well-- This fiddler Israfel), And the giddy stars (will any one tell Why giddy?) to attend his spell Cease their hymns in the middle.

On the height of her go Totters the Moon, and blushes As the song of that fiddle rushes Across her bow.

The red Lightning stands to listen, And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten As each of the seven puts its fist in Its eye, for the mist in.

And they say--it's a riddle-- That all these listening things, That stop in the middle For the heart-strung fiddle With such the Spirit sings, Are held as on the griddle By these unusual strings.

Wherefore thou art not wrong, Israfel! in that thou boastest Fiddlestrings uncommon strong; To thee the fiddlestrings belong With which thou toastest Other hearts as on a p.r.o.ng.

Yes! heaven is thine, but this Is a world of sours and sweets, Where cold meats are cold meats, And the eater's most perfect bliss Is the shadow of him who treats.

If I could griddle As Israfiddle Has griddled--he fiddle as I,-- He might not fiddle so wild a riddle As this mad melody, While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle Hearing my griddle-cry.

_Unknown._

AFTER DILETTANTE CONCETTI

"Why do you wear your hair like a man, Sister Helen?

This week is the third since you began."

"I'm writing a ballad; be still if you can, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What chickens are these between sea and heaven?)"

"But why does your figure appear so lean, Sister Helen?

And why do you dress in sage, sage green?"

"Children should never be heard, if seen, Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What fowls are a-wing in the stormy heaven!)"

"But why is your face so yellowy white, Sister Helen?

And why are your skirts so funnily tight?"

"Be quiet, you torment, or how can I write, Little brother?

(O Mother Carey, mother!

How gathers thy train to the sea from the heaven!)"

"And who's Mother Carey, and what is her train, Sister Helen?

And why do you call her again and again?"

"You troublesome boy, why that's the refrain, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

What work is toward in the startled heaven?)"

"And what's a refrain? What a curious word, Sister Helen!

Is the ballad you're writing about a sea-bird?"

"Not at all; why should it be? Don't be absurd, Little brother.

(O Mother Carey, mother!

Thy brood flies lower as lowers the heaven.)"

(A big brother speaketh:) "The refrain you've studied a meaning had, Sister Helen!

It gave strange force to a weird ballad.

But refrains have become a ridiculous 'fad,'

Little brother.

And Mother Carey, mother, Has a bearing on nothing in earth or heaven.

"But the finical fashion has had its day, Sister Helen.

And let's try in the style of a different lay To bid it adieu in poetical way, Little brother.

So, Mother Carey, mother!

Collect your chickens and go to--heaven."

(_A pause. Then the big brother singeth, accompanying himself in a plaintive wise on the triangle._)

"Look in my face. My name is Used-to-was; I am also called Played-out, and Done to Death, And It-will-wash-no-more. Awakeneth Slowly but sure awakening it has, The common-sense of man; and I, alas!

The ballad-burden trick, now known too well, And turned to scorn, and grown contemptible-- A too transparent artifice to pa.s.s.

"What a cheap dodge I am! The cats who dart Tin-kettled through the streets in wild surprise a.s.sail judicious ears not otherwise; And yet no critics praise the urchin's 'art,'

Who to the wretched creature's caudal part Its foolish empty-jingling 'burden' ties."

_H. D. Traill._

WHENCENESS OF THE WHICH

SOME DISTANCE AFTER TENNYSON

Come into the Whenceness Which, For the fierce Because has flown: Come into the Whenceness Which, I am here by the Where alone; And the Whereas odors are wafted abroad Till I hold my nose and groan.

Queen Which of the Whichbud garden of What's Come hither the jig is done.

In gloss of Isness and shimmer of Was, Queen Thisness and Which in one; Shine out, little Which, sunning over the bangs, To the Nowness, and be its sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the Is flower at the fence; She is coming, my Which, my dear, And as she Whistles a song of the Whence, The Nowness cries, "She is near, she is near."

And the Thingness howls, "Alas!"

The Whoness murmurs, "Well, I should smile,"

And the Whatlet sobs, "I pa.s.s."

_Unknown._